


between the shadow and the soul

by gdgdbaby



Series: fill my mouth with your name [2]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Bodyswap, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 21:32:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12802815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: "Well, I'm not gonna tell you that you can't jerk off," Lovett says, but there's a dull flush spreading up his neck, and he isn't quite looking at Jon so much as he's gazing into the middle distance above Jon's left ear. "Who am I, the orgasm czar?"





	between the shadow and the soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daisysusan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisysusan/gifts).



> the porn, and then some. shoutout to maggie, as always, for holding my hand through this endeavor and assuring me that it would be remiss to not at least entertain the idea of a third installment from emily's point of view, and to everyone else who spectated and cheerleaded in turns. ♥ happy thanksgiving, folks!
> 
> title, once again, from [sonnet xvii](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49236/one-hundred-love-sonnets-xvii) by pablo neruda.

The room feels too hot. That's the first thing Jon registers.

The second is the person on the bed: Lovett's stripped down to his underwear, skin so pale it's almost glowing. He's smiling, coy, a sharper version of the expression he makes whenever a joke lands particularly well. Jon wants to touch him, desire curling tight in his gut. He drifts toward the foot of the bed and climbs up, knees sinking into the mattress, palms itching. Slides between Lovett's legs and trails a hand along the gentle curve of Lovett's belly just to hear him sigh.

He lifts his other hand to Lovett's mouth, thumbs at the corner that's turned up. Lovett flicks his tongue out, playful, the tip cresting against the edge of Jon's fingernail, and Jon exhales. Lovett's holding the rest of his body so still. It's not bad, really—just different. He's waiting.

Everything feels delicate and fragile, like a shimmering bubble about to pop. He lets the hand on Lovett's stomach wander lower, and Lovett sighs again when Jon cups him through his boxer-briefs, fingers pressing against the line of his dick. Lovett's not all the way hard yet, but Jon could get him there. Jon wants to get him there.

He leans in to brush his lips against Lovett's, the drag silky slow. His hands move with more intent, the fingers at Lovett's face pushing against his chin, the hinge of his jaw. Jon swallows the noise Lovett makes, tongues at the roof of his mouth until Lovett squirms, out of breath.

There's a soft rustle of sheets to his right, and then Emily's settling in next to them, one hand steady against the small of Jon's back, her hair tickling Jon's shoulder. Jon breaks the kiss to look at her, panting a little.

"That's it, babe," she says, tilting her head, eyes bright and focused. "Keep going."

Jon doesn't need to be told twice. It's difficult not to be urgent now that there are hands on him—not just Emily's, but Lovett's, too, squeezing his hip and creeping up the ladder of his ribcage. Jon licks his palm and dips his hand past the waistband of Lovett's underwear, and when he squeezes, it feels like he's touching himself, too, slick and warm enough to make him gasp—and the room somehow gets hotter, air pressed in around him like a living thing, and—

 

 

Jon jolts awake on the wrong side of the bed, in Lovett's body, dick hard and insistent against the seam of his sweatpants, and thinks, _fuck_.

 

 

It's obviously not the first time he's woken up with a hard-on in his life, and it certainly won't be the last. Under normal circumstances, Jon would either see if Emily was feeling generous or just steal into the bathroom and deal with it on his own. Being in Lovett's body, though, makes the whole situation feel illicit and intense in a way that he didn't anticipate, and that's not even to speak of the dream, wisps of visceral imagery still floating around in Jon's head, clinging to consciousness as the faint dawn light drifts in through the curtains and threatens to melt it away. He feels desperate, on edge, hyper-aware of every physical sensation—the weight of the sheets against his hips, the gentle rise and fall of Emily's breath next to him, the twitch of his fingers along the edge of the comforter as he peels it back.

He almost reaches down into his pants to palm himself, take the edge off just enough to be able to think more clearly, but on the far side of the bed, Lovett rolls over, mumbling in his sleep, and Jon can't bring himself to do it. This body isn't his; he's just its steward, occasionally, when some wrinkle in the fabric of spacetime deems it appropriate. He should ask, at least, before he does anything.

They haven't even really talked about what to do when they're like this. They haven't talked about what to do, sexually, at all. Lovett looked so vulnerable two mornings ago, when they asked him to move with them to the new house, like he would break apart if someone so much as touched him the wrong way. Jon hadn't wanted to push.

He stares at the ceiling for another minute, jaw working, and then manages to slide out of bed without jostling anyone else too much. His boner is half gone at this point, but he's still keyed up. A run will probably help get rid of the frenetic buzz beneath his skin, the feeling like he's spinning out on thin ice. He fills a water bottle up in the kitchen. Lovett's beat-up Sketchers are at the front door. They're not the greatest jogging shoes, soles too worn down to provide the right arch support, but Jon's too scattered to spend time looking for an alternative.

It's early enough that the sun hasn't quite skimmed past the rooftops yet. Jon works up a good sweat doing a wide circuit around the neighborhood, smiling at folks that pass by walking their dogs. Lovett's self-deprecating about being out of shape, but he actually is pretty fit, limbs compact and sturdy. _Sturdy everywhere_ , Jon's mind supplies, and it takes another two blocks pounding the pavement to brush that thought away.

He doesn't feel himself flagging until halfway through his third big loop, when he's running out of water anyway, and the clean burn in his legs has fully supplanted the singe of arousal. He cuts through the rest of the neighborhood to get back to the house, strolling at a more leisurely pace as he swallows the last dregs from the bottom of his bottle. He's soaked clean through Lovett's shirt—the old straight shooter one from before they branded it, gray and soft—which Lovett will probably complain about.

The house is still quiet when he lets himself back in. It's pretty typical for a Tuesday morning; they don't have to be in the office till later. Emily's sitting up in bed when he walks back into the bedroom, scrolling through her phone, flyaway pieces of her hair sticking out. He wants to smooth it out, kiss the corner of her mouth that's twitching upward. She raises her eyebrows when she sees him. "Jon?"

"Yeah," Jon says, stripping his shirt off and balling it up in one hand. Emily holds his gaze. "We swapped overnight. Felt weird, so I went out for a run."

"I can see that," she says, voice bland. She opens her mouth to say something else, but Lovett rolls over onto his back groaning, and she turns toward him instead, bangs falling into her face. "Morning."

They've been doing this for months, and Lovett still wakes up like he's not used to being here, startled and sloe-eyed. It makes Jon want to drape himself across him, weigh him down into the mattress, say, _you belong_. It's not a new impulse, exactly, but this is the first time he's allowed himself to entertain it for longer than a fleeting moment.

It feels like there are a lot of things he wants, lately.

Lovett lifts his head, squinting at Jon, and grumbles, "Ugh, you got my clothes all sweaty and gross."

"It's your sweat, technically," Jon says, and thinks his voice comes out pretty smooth.

"Not right now it isn't," Lovett says, and rolls half-over again to press his face into Emily's hip. One of Emily's hands lands in his hair, stroking absently. Something about that makes Jon's chest twinge. "I'm gonna sleep some more."

"I'm gonna shower," Jon announces, to no one in particular, and ducks into the bathroom.

 

 

There's really no elegant way to bring it up, is the thing. Jon learned years ago, even back when he was still writing speeches for John Kerry, that politics, like every other part of life, was full of uncomfortable truths and inconvenient timing. On a campaign, there’s no time to beat around the bush; if he had a question, he asked it. Sometimes you just had to grab the bull by the horns.

Jon takes long enough in the shower that Lovett's in the kitchen by the time he's finished, leaning against the island, a half-eaten KIND bar hanging from his mouth as he waits for Emily to finish puttering with the coffee machine. Leo's snoozing against Lovett's foot, and Pundit's sniffing around Emily's slippers.

"So, Lovett," Jon says, accepting the bar Lovett tosses him on autopilot. He sounds too formal, and he can't figure out how to fix it. "I have a question for you."

Lovett snorts. "Is this a livestream or what? Just ask."

Jon licks his lips. "What should I do if I," he says, and his voice—Lovett's voice—breaks on the last word. "You know. Wake up in the morning with a…"

He gestures vaguely at his crotch. "Oh," Lovett says. "You can say the word boner out loud, Favreau. We're all adults here."

"Questionable premise, at best," Emily says. She turns around with mugs of coffee for all three of them, sets them carefully down. Cocks a knowing eyebrow at Jon. "That's why you went running this morning?"

"Yes," Jon says. "I—ah—yes." He slides a mug toward him and stirs a sugar into it for wont of something to do with his hands.

"Well, I'm not gonna tell you that you can't jerk off," Lovett says, but there's a dull flush spreading up his neck, and he isn't quite looking at Jon so much as he's gazing into the middle distance above Jon's left ear. "Who am I, the orgasm czar?"

Emily laughs quietly, pulling her hair up into a ponytail. "Right," Jon says. "Okay. Glad we got that settled."

Lovett rolls his eyes. "Not even the biggest issue we have, is it?" He stares down into his coffee, fiddling with the handle. "I mean, we leave for New Orleans in two days." No one says anything, and Lovett glances up again. "What if we swap during the wedding?" He's biting the inside of his cheek. 

"That's—" Jon can't say the thought hadn't crossed his mind, after the second time, the third time, when they realized it might just keep happening. He and Emily had discussed it briefly, after they swapped back in April; the idea of being in the wrong body during his own wedding isn't the most appealing thought in the world, but at least it would be someone else Jon's been pretty in love with for years, even if it took him a while to recognize it for what it was. At least it would be someone Emily loves too; at least it would be Lovett.

"It would be a fucking disaster," Lovett says, voice thinning out, going higher, the way it always does when he gets worked up. It's funny how many of their personality tics stay the same when they're like this. "It's your big day, and everyone will be there, and it's way too late to cancel anything—"

"Hey, hey," Emily says, and scoots around the counter to curl an arm over Lovett's hunched shoulders. She meets Jon's eyes over his head. "First of all, we're not going to cancel anything."

"But—" Lovett says faintly, and Jon shakes his head.

"I don't think we have to worry about it," he says, and sends Lovett as reassuring a smile as he can. "Not right now, anyway. Optimism, right? We can hope for the best and deal with the rest as it comes." He takes another sip from his mug. "It really does make all the difference that it's you."

Lovett opens his mouth, closes it again. "Drink your coffee," Emily advises, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of Lovett's neck. Lovett exhales slowly, leaning back against her hand, and brings the rim of his mug to his lips.

 

 

They've swapped back by the time lunch rolls around at the office, and Lovett's been sufficiently distracted from stressing out about the wedding by Paul Ryan's latest shitbag statement on the healthcare bill. It feels kind of backward, using the political landscape as an escape from personal life rather than the other way around. Jon's not sure he likes it.

He's been sitting at his desk all morning, and there's a crick beneath his left shoulder blade. He stands to stretch it out, drifts over to glance at Lovett's screen as he's furiously typing something on his laptop. It's gratifying when Lovett doesn't move away from the hand Jon curls against his neck.

"Wanna get lunch?" Jon asks, and Lovett perks up a little. "My treat."

"Wined, dined, sixty-nined?" Lovett says archly, back in full form, and Jon can feel his face turning red. He's thinking about this morning again, his dream, and the phantom press of Emily's hand against his back. Fuck.

"If that's what you want," Jon says, voice admirably steady, and Tommy coughs delicately into his hand ten feet away.

"Keep it in your pants, Favreau," Lovett says, but he's grinning when he pushes away from his desk. "Let's go eat."

 

 

New Orleans is—a blur, honestly. He sees the inside of his hotel room maybe twice the entire weekend. Everything is drenched in a gauzy haze of alcohol, and Jon feels like he's floating all Saturday, buzzed and happy. Lovett finally made it on Friday after finding his passport, stupid earplugs at the ready, so Jon's life is pretty grand. Lovett and Shomik have a po-boy eating contest that ends with them falling asleep against each other after lunch. Tommy does not one but _three_ keg stands at a bar later that evening. "I think I threw my back out on that last one," he says, laughing, by the time they're heading out to the next place.

"I hope not," Jon says. "Hanna would kill me if I broke you."

They end up at a karaoke bar at around midnight, which is exciting mostly because Lovett gets to butcher some heartfelt Celine Dion for the gathered masses. Jon leans back and enjoys the show, artfully dodging every attempt to shuffle him on stage.

"It's _my_ bachelor party," he points out. "You all should be singing for _me_."

"Challenge accepted," Andy says, and saunters up to croon _Sweet Caroline_ into the microphone. Not the most inspired song choice, certainly, but the delivery makes up for it. His fucking brother. Of course he has to make drunk karaoke look good, too.

"There's no way anyone can follow that," Lovett says, loudly dismayed in that way he gets when he's not being serious at all. "I'm going to get more drinks."

Jon settles against the squishy seat of the booth and lets the sound of Shomik and Andy discussing the finer details of traffic on 405 wash over him, closes his eyes for a minute and just listens. It's good to hear familiar voices bickering over the same old shit, good to be hanging out with some of his favorite humans in the world. Jon wouldn't consider himself a sappy drunk, but something about being here, with these particular people, in a place so different from LA or DC, feels good. It feels right.

His eyes pop open again when microphone feedback crackles over the speakers, and—Ben and Tommy are on stage, suddenly, and they're about to do some sort of duet? What the fuck. "This one's for you, Jonathan Favreau," Tommy says, with the sort of gravitas that reminds Jon of press conferences long gone, and then they immediately launch into a truly terrible rendition of _Ain't No Mountain High Enough_.

"Oh my God," Lovett says, back with a flight of whiskey shots, "this is literally the best day of my life." He doesn't stop laughing until Tommy almost trips over his own Sperrys while stepping off the stage after the song is over.

Ben says he's getting another pitcher of beer and disappears into the crowd, but Tommy slides back into their booth, pink-faced. His forehead is shiny with sweat. "We totally killed it."

"Honestly, that was awful, and I loved it so much," Jon says, touching a hand to his chest. "Hopefully I remember it happened tomorrow."

Lovett's still shaking next to him. "Don't worry," he says into Jon's ear, and Jon feels a burst of warmth in his stomach. "Tanya taught me well—I got video."

 

 

They are determined, Jon's pretty sure, to keep him up until they have to head to the airport at noon tomorrow—technically, today. Sunday. It's almost three in the morning on a Sunday, and Lovett's pouring gumbo into his mouth through a giant funnel, and it's the funniest thing Jon's seen in the entire world.

At this point, he's been awake for so long that his experience of the world around him seems to render in snapshots, or brief, disconnected bursts of motion: Lovett grinning and wiping his mouth, the glint of light off his glasses, he and Tommy linking arms to stay upright out on the street. Every other sense seems to lag in comparison, the high arc of laughter, the warm press of Lovett swaying into his side as they bump against each other in the cab back to the hotel.

Jon characterized Lovett once as a six-year-old on Ritalin in the club, and that hasn't changed in all the time they've known each other. The only difference is that Jon wants to kiss him more. He's not sure if that's an endorsement or an indictment of his own personal taste, but he can't say he really cares. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and all, but it seems impossible for anyone to look at Lovett and not see what he does.

He probably shouldn't be spending this much time dwelling on the bare juncture of Lovett's shoulder where it meets his neck, but—fuck it, honestly. He's very drunk, and very tired, and he really can't be held responsible for the wandering paths his mind decides to tread.

Jon's about to reach out and drag his fingers across Lovett's nape when Andy says, "Hey, we're back," from shotgun, and pushes the door open. Tommy eases out of the side of the cab closest to the sidewalk, and then Lovett scrambles after him. Jon twists weird stepping out onto the curb and nearly collides with a street light. Jesus. He's officially too old for this.

"I'm officially too old for this," he says out loud, trying to straighten up.

Tommy shakes his head, laughing. Lovett tuts, arms akimbo, as the cab behind theirs pulls up and Shomik and Ben spill out of it. "So that's a no to breaking into Jackson Square after hours and defacing the statue of dearest Andrew," Lovett says, and Jon snorts so hard it hurts a little.

"Vive la révolution," Andy intones, clapping Jon's shoulder.

Jon huffs. "The revolution can live on tomorrow, I promise. I'm declaring it bedtime, guys."

Shomik sends him a relieved look. "Thank God."

"The opportunity to graffiti all over that monument was the only reason I even came on this trip, you party pooper," Lovett says, petulant, but he's smiling. "You're a ruiner of dreams."

"I'll make it up to you," Jon says, light enough that none of the others seem to think much of it. He doesn't think he imagines the way Lovett's eyes go wider, though, nor the soft part of his lips. _Good_ , Jon thinks, kind of savagely.

They stumble into the hotel lobby together. Jon's feet feel heavy, like his shoes are weighed down by bricks. Now that the idea of a horizontal surface has been reintroduced to this plane of consciousness, exhaustion is hitting him like a wall. He blinks too fast, light-headed, when they step past the elevator's double doors.

"You got him?" he hears Andy say. The room he's sharing with Tommy is on the other side of the floor.

"Always," Lovett says drily, and frog-marches Jon to their room, pulls the keycard out of his pocket.

"Bed, hello bed," Jon says, crossing the threshold and toeing his shoes off. The room spins a bit as he shuffles across the carpet, and then Lovett's propping him up on one side, enough to half-carry him onto the bed closest to the door. They land gracelessly on it together, one of Lovett's elbows colliding with Jon's ribs. Jon groans, flat on his back.

"Oh, boy," Lovett says, laughing. He doesn't immediately move away, which is—something. "You're a mess."

"Mm," Jon says, and sends him a smile he knows is too dopey, can't help himself. "I'm your mess, right now."

Lovett's chin curls down toward his chest, and the corners of his mouth twitch upward. It feels like nothing at all to tangle his hands in the collar of Lovett's shirt and tug him down.

The kiss is sloppy, wet, warm, perfect. They're in the right bodies, this time, and Jon's buzzing with the energy of someone draining the last of his reserves, the kind of thrumming in his veins that he remembers from long nights working on speeches in the West Wing, bouncing ideas and crumbled up sheets of paper off the walls of his office. This is better—having Lovett slanted over him, tongue sliding against his, making soft noises into his mouth, is infinitely better.

Lovett's breath's gone kind of uneven when he pulls away. "Jon," he says, with the barest pretense of shock. "You are very drunk. Also, engaged."

"I am," Jon says easily, and then, before he can think twice: "Emily would be so mad if she knew she wasn't here to watch this."

Lovett inhales sharply.

"We've talked about it," Jon continues, because apparently he can't shut up, now. "A lot. In fact—" He pulls his phone out and fumbles until he gets to Emily. The call's already gone through by the time Jon's brain catches up with him and he remembers it's like, one in the morning in Los Angeles. Saturday, though, so it's kind of a coin toss, whether or not Emily's still awake.

"Jon," Lovett says. "Don't—"

Emily picks up on the third ring. Too late. "I was waiting for the drunk Facetime," she says, sleepy but cheerful. "How's New Orleans?"

"Hi," Jon says. "I miss you, I love you, I kissed Lovett."

"Oh, finally," she says. "The gay chicken thing was starting to get a little weird."

Lovett splutters next to him. "That is _not_ what it was, I just—it didn't feel—"

Jon giggles, can't help it. "It was kind of gay chicken, Lovett."

Lovett makes a face. "Well," he says. "The game's over now. It happened. We kissed."

"Show me," Emily says, leaning in close to the camera, curiosity getting the better of her. Lovett tenses against him, and then relaxes. Jon props himself up on an elbow, holding his phone out, face turned up expectantly. It's a thrill when Lovett's gaze drops to his mouth. He meets Jon halfway this time, slow but deliberate, and it takes Jon's breath away, burns it up in his lungs. Lovett kisses like he tells jokes, cutting, incisive, dead on target. Relentless. Jon always thought he would, and it's still more than he could have imagined.

It feels like they stay like that forever, though it can't be long before his arm starts feeling wobbly. When he glances back at his phone, Emily's got a hand over her mouth, and there are two spots of color high on her face.

"Wait, okay?" she says, and her voice comes out raspy in a way that makes Jon's stomach quiver, makes him want to reach through the screen and brush a hand against her throat, swallow the noise. He wants—so much. It seems incredible, right now, that he can contain all of it. "Wait till you get back, to—touch each other. I wanna see all of it."

Jon's stomach flips again. "Okay," he says, as Lovett nods. "Love you."

"Love you too," she says, and then cocks her head. "Both of you."

Lovett favors her with a small smile. "XOXO, or whatever it is the kids say these days." Emily laughs, but she stays on the line for another long moment, as if waiting for something, and Lovett's throat bobs as he swallows. "Love you," he says, sincerity rubbing the edges of his voice smooth. "See you tomorrow."

Jon drops his phone onto the bedspread as the call cuts out. "Fuck," he says. They're almost certainly too drunk to do anything tonight, but Jon's still thinking about it: pulling Lovett to the edge of the bed and sliding to his knees, the noise Lovett would make when Jon tucked his face against Lovett's thigh, what Jon would do with his hands and his mouth and every other part of his body, if given the opportunity. What he would do if Emily was here, too. So many things.

"Yeah," Lovett says, mouth trembling. His eyes look luminous in the dim light, unruly curls ringing his head like a halo. The collar of his shirt is rumpled and stretched out in an odd shape from where Jon pulled too hard, earlier.

"We should—sleep," Jon murmurs.

Lovett repeats, "Yeah," softer, and a strange expression crosses his face. He leans down before Jon can react, a careful hand braced against Jon's collarbone, and brushes their lips together one last time. It's brief but lingering; Jon feels the lick of heat all the way down to his toes.

Lovett's visibly pink when he pulls away. He takes a deep breath, chews on his lower lip, fingers fiddling restlessly against Jon's neck. It's good to know that he's affected by this, that he might want it as much as Jon does. He's not used to a Lovett that holds back, but he thinks he kind of gets it. It's scary, sometimes, to ask for the things you want, especially when you've been holding onto them for so long. Especially given the distinct possibility of justifiable rejection. It already took enough courage for Jon to ask if he could do what he wanted in Lovett's body—and now he's thinking about that again, waking up with Lovett's arms and legs and curly hair, the pink curve of Lovett's dick nestled against his stomach.

If he wasn't too drunk to get it up, keeping his hands off Lovett would be much harder. As it is, exhaustion's seeping into Jon's bones. He lets out a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Sleep," Lovett says, decisive. He pushes up, off the bed.

Jon feels the loss of warmth keenly. "Where are you going?" he asks, trying not to sound too needy.

"I'm brushing my teeth, because I'm not a heathen," Lovett says, disappearing into the bathroom.

Jon should probably make an attempt at getting ready to sleep, being a responsible human being, but the longer he stays horizontal, the less he wants to move. He might just pass out here, legs hanging off the end of the bed. Wouldn't be the worst position he's ever fallen asleep in.

He's about halfway there when he hears the light switch turn off. Jon manages to open his eyes in time to see Lovett sliding a couple cups of water onto the table between the two beds, taking his glasses off. His gaze slides toward Jon, and the empty space next to him, quietly assessing.

Jon scoots himself up until his head squishes against the pillows. "Come here," he demands, making grabby hands, too exhausted to keep up the pretense of being at all chill about this. The idea of Lovett sleeping on the other bed is fucking unbearable.

Lovett wrinkles his nose and says, "I was gonna." The mattress dips as he climbs onto it. Jon curls an arm over Lovett's waist, fingers pressing into the divot of Lovett's hip. They sleep.

 

 

It feels like Jon spends the next three days trying to get rid of his hangover. Tanya laughs at them for being old on Monday morning and herds them into the recording booth anyway, because they still have deadlines, apparently. "Ruthless dictator," Lovett groans, tugging the brim of his cap over his eyes. Tommy lolls his head back against his chair, arms drooping, legs splayed out.

"It's what you pay me for," she says sweetly, and switches the microphones on.

By Tuesday afternoon, his stomach seems to have thankfully stopped trying to rebel against attempts to swallow anything but the blandest oatmeal. Emily's working a little late, so they drop by Whole Foods on the way home to pick up snacks, wine, fancy cured meats and artisanal cheese—

"Didn't your mother ever tell you that grocery shopping while hungry was a bad idea?" Lovett says, amused, when he comes back with a six-pack of La Croix and takes in all the stuff Jon's dumped into their cart. Pundit sniffs around the wheels, and Leo peers down at her from his perch in the baby seat.

"Well, you know," Jon says. "There's three of us to feed now." Lovett goes still for a moment before sliding the La Croix in next to the brie. "Though, to be fair, we've basically been feeding you for years—"

Lovett snorts. They guide their cart toward the chip aisle—dangerous, but worth it. "Send all complaints and inquiries through the cash app, please," he says, leaning in to inspect a jar of white queso.

Jon rests his elbows against the handle of their shopping cart, gaze sweeping down the aisle and back, catching on Lovett like string around a hook, dangling and helpless. Lovett, like Emily, commands Jon's attention in any room, even when he's doing something totally mundane. He looks relaxed, dressed in a soft t-shirt and those maroon jeans. When he bends down to grab some salsa, the hem of his shirt rides up a little, enough to expose a tiny sliver of skin at his hip. Jon's fingers twitch—he wants to run a hand down Lovett's spine, bite at the tendon in Lovett's neck. Fuck. He shouldn't be thinking about this out in public.

It sounds stupid to say that Jon's gotten used to regular sex, but that feels like the only explanation for why his body seems so attuned to every movement of Lovett's. They're sharing a bed now, which means he and Emily haven't touched except to kiss each other good morning in at least a week and a half. Not even that long of a dry spell, in the grand scheme of things, but it's pretty bad if just seeing a bit of unexpected skin is enough to set Jon off.

They should probably talk about it. While sober, like adults, all three of them, so there's no question about who wants what, who remembers what, no more two steps forward, one step back. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Lovett turns, having selected an acceptable dipping sauce, and notices him staring. "What?"

Jon shrugs. "You look good," he says evenly. "That's all."

Lovett ducks his head, fumbling with the jar of salsa. "I look like I always have, you weirdo."

"You've always looked good, then," Jon insists.

Lovett huffs out a laugh. "A bald-faced lie, but a sweet one," he says, tugging them further down the aisle.

Jon grabs a bag of tortilla chips and tosses it into their cart. The only other person browsing in this section is looking the other way, so Jon feels pretty comfortable nudging Lovett against the shelf of gluten free pretzels and stepping into his space. "I'm being serious," he says quietly, and Lovett doesn't reply. His gaze flicks down to Jon's mouth, and then back up again, lips parting, and Jon thinks, _oh_. "You should tell me if you want me to stop," he says, and then they're kissing, absurdly, in the middle of the WeHo Whole Foods, where Jon once had to clean up after puppy Leo because he and Emily had mistimed a grocery run.

The PA system crackles to life, something about Stacy to produce, please, Stacy to produce. Lovett's sighing when Jon pulls back, sooner than he would've liked. "Jon," Lovett says, hushed. He looks guilty, eyes darting off behind him, and for a second Jon's stomach drops. He opens his mouth, the beginning of an apology on his tongue, and then Lovett shakes his head, the corner of his mouth lifting, and says, "Didn't Emily ask us not to touch until she could see it?"

"You—" Jon says, stunned. "Lovett."

Lovett slides out from his grip, commandeering the cart and steering them toward checkout. "Did you forget?"

"What the hell," Jon says. He catches up, curls a hand around Lovett's wrist. "I thought _you_ forgot. You never—we didn't—"

"No," Lovett says, shaking his head. "We were very drunk, and then we were very hungover, and then I was just—processing all of it."

"That—okay, that makes sense," Jon says, and then they're sliding everything onto a conveyor belt. He should've known; when Lovett gets quiet about anything, it means he's thinking hard. He stays that way as they're wheeling their bounty out to the car, while cuddling the dogs on the ride home, when they're putting away all the stuff they aren't going to eat tonight.

Jon drums his fingers against the island counter, after, and dips a tortilla chip into the bowl of salsa they've poured out. He's pretty hungry, but he also feels too restless for real food. Lovett comes back out of the pantry and climbs into one of the bar chairs across from Jon, chin propped in his hands.

"How do you think a prosciutto nacho would play?" Jon asks thoughtfully, at the same time Lovett mumbles, "So what exactly have you and Emily talked about?"

Jon swallows wrong around his chip and spends a long moment coughing into his hand. Lovett's staring right at him, now, like he wants to catalogue Jon's every reaction, which is its own special kind of hell. "I—" Jon wheezes, and has to clear his throat one more time.

"Tell me," Lovett says, and there's a careful intensity threaded through his voice that makes Jon want to lean in and kiss him again. He tamps down on the urge and grabs another chip instead, nibbling on the corner. Lovett sighs. "Jon, if you can't even say it, it probably isn't a good idea to—"

Jon shakes his head, mouth twisting, and says, unsteady, "If I had to read out a list of everything I wanted to do with you, Lovett, we'd be here all day."

Lovett lets out a short breath, not quite a laugh. "Oh."

"Yeah." Jon is—breaking the tortilla chip into tiny pieces instead of eating it. "We've talked about the kissing, which you knew," he says, low and halting. "And—I don't know, handjobs, me going down on you. Me, going down on her while you—" He cuts himself off, fingers digging into the linoleum.

"While I what?" Lovett says, and then they both hear the crunch of tires on the pavement outside, the opening and closing of Emily's car door. "Saved by the belle," he continues, tremulous. Emily lets herself in the front entrance, the dogs scampering up to greet her. She crouches down to scratch both of them behind the ears, hair falling out of her messy bun.

Jon remembers the sound of her whispering in his ear about how Lovett could touch him, the places he'd push pleasure into—remembers the way her voice had gone high and soft when she'd shuddered in his arms and come—and has to close his eyes. Emily's been a revelation since day one, when she turned out to not only not be a Republican but also willing to leap headfirst into a conversation about the importance of public employee unionization at eleven o'clock on a Wednesday night. They'd spent hours talking at Mr. Smith's, lilting piano playing in the background, before leaving to walk along the waterfront till two in the morning. She was beautiful and opinionated and passionate—about policy, puppies, _him_. She taught him to want things he didn't even have the words for. That hasn't changed at all.

"Hello, boys," Emily says, breaking into his thoughts. When Jon opens his eyes again, she's dropping her bag on a chair at the dining room table, rolling her shoulders back. She floats over to press a kiss to Lovett's temple before settling against the counter. "Feeling better?"

Jon takes a deep breath, exhales. "For a certain measure of 'better,'" he says, and then, because he doesn't actually want to lose the moment: "Lovett and I were talking about sex?"

It's Lovett's turn to choke on a chip, which is pretty satisfying. Emily rubs the center his back, eyes shooting toward Jon and then back again. "Anything interesting come up?" she asks lightly.

Lovett swallows. "Ha-ha," he says, brows rising, " _come up_ ," and Jon drapes a hand over his face and laughs, can't help it.

Emily rolls her eyes. "So I didn't miss out on much."

Lovett folds his hands in front of himself. "Not really," he says, staring down at the bowl of salsa like it holds all the answers to the universe. "Jon kissed me in the chip aisle at Whole Foods, though, so I think he's pretty desperate. If you need the room to yourselves for tonight, I can take the guest—"

"No," Emily says, firm, and Lovett falters a little before resuming.

"The last thing I want to be is a cockblock," he says, sticking his chin out. "I'm pretty sure you haven't been refraining from sex for the past two weeks because you're like, waiting till marriage, or whatever."

"That cat's been out of the bag for a while, yes," Emily says drily. She loops her arm through Lovett's, glances at Jon again before turning back. "Look, Lovett—if you really want to sleep alone tonight, that's fine. But I think Jon and I would both appreciate it if you stuck around."

"But I can't—" Lovett's voice cracks. "I can't—you—it wouldn't be fair to you."

"Oh, sweetheart," Emily says, surprised into laughter. "If that's the only thing holding you back, don't even worry."

"She's very creative," Jon supplies ruefully, and Lovett's eyebrows rise to his hairline.

"Creative how?"

Emily reaches up to cup Lovett's chin, fingers sweeping over his cheek. "Do you trust me?"

Lovett gazes at her for a long moment, unblinking, before he says, "Yeah. Yes. I do."

Jon lets out a long breath, some of the tension bleeding out of his posture. Emily smiles at Lovett, and then turns to smirk at Jon, as if to say, _see how good I am_? And she is. His perfect fiancée, expert Lovett-wrangler. "Excellent," she says, disentangling herself from Lovett to slide over and drop a kiss on Jon's mouth. "Let's eat. I'm fucking starving."

 

 

Emily sends Jon to shower after dinner, ostensibly so she can get Lovett alone. Jon doesn't mind so much, if only because it gives him some time to gather himself. He soaps up, slow and methodical, and stays under the spray until his fingers start getting pruney.

Wrapping a big fluffy bathrobe around himself after toweling off feels luxurious; Emily uses hers all the time, but Jon's usually ends up thrown over the lip of the jacuzzi or hanging off a hook in their closet, depending upon the state of the dirty laundry. He can hear low voices murmuring outside when he shuffles to the door, but he can't make out any individual words.

There's a moment after he pushes out into the bedroom where Jon feels a distinct sense of déjà vu. He has to rock back on his heels and take a breath, hands curling in the pockets of his robe. It's not exactly the same as the dream he woke from a week ago, but close enough that something tugs in Jon's stomach.

Lovett's sitting cross-legged on the sheets, jeans and shirt tossed on the floor. Emily's changed into more comfortable clothes, an oversized shirt and dark underwear, glasses perched on her nose. She's curled on her side next to Lovett, propped up on one elbow, her fingers are dancing over his knee. They turn to look at him together.

"We thought maybe you'd drowned in the shower," Lovett says, tilting his head, a smile playing at his lips.

"No," Jon says. He walks to the foot of the bed and stops, hovering. "What did you talk about while I was gone?"

Lovett smile goes wider. "I don't kiss and tell, Jon," he says, an egregious lie, but of course the image of Emily and Lovett kissing rises to the forefront of Jon's mind and derails everything else. He'd like to see that, at some point, if it's on the table. It must show on his face because Emily laughs, nudging at Jon's leg with her toes.

"Just touch him already," she advises, and Jon bends forward.

This part isn't the same as the dream—it's better, being able to slide a real hand up Lovetts stomach and chest, feel the way Lovett exhales underneath Jon's palm as he pushes him onto his back. Jon isn't quite sure where to start, honestly, but Emily's gaze is heavy and Lovett's lips part sweetly when Jon settles over him and presses their mouths together. Jon can work with that.

He doesn't know how long they kiss, Jon cradled in the cage of Lovett's legs, Emily yanking Jon's bathrobe off and then sweeping a reassuring hand up his spine. His lips are buzzing when he finally pulls back for breath, though, and Lovett's breathing is uneven, pupils blown wide. "Is this—okay?" he asks, and Lovett snorts, soft, half-turning his face into the sheets.

"Very," he says, and makes a louder noise when Jon dips down to nuzzle his neck, teeth scraping across the jumping muscle in Lovett's neck.

"Can he leave a mark?" he hears Emily ask, and Lovett says, "Wherever he wants," breathless, and that's heady, that makes Jon's toes curl as he lets his mouth meander lower, exhaling wetly over the trimmed hair scattered across Lovett's chest before swiping his tongue over one pebbled nipple.

Lovett gasps, arching up against him, hands falling to move restlessly against Jon's hips. "That's it," Emily says, voice drifting now as if it's coming from very off, wispy and warm. "That's so good, Jon."

Jon—gets like this sometimes, laser-focused, wrapped up in the pure sensory experience of sex, sight and sound, taste and touch. Lovett's body is an entirely unexplored canvas; Jon's showered in it but that's wholly different from mapping it out with his hands, his mouth, learning what the fluttering, delicate skin stretched over Lovett's ribcage tastes like. He sucks a mark above Lovett's bellybutton, drops sloppy kisses down to the hem of Lovett's underwear, and hooks his fingers into the waistband.

Emily's hand brushes flat against Jon's shoulder: _Hold on. Ask._ "Can I—" Jon murmurs, and Lovett doesn't even wait for him to finish the question before saying, "Yes, yes," the sound pulled out of him.

Jon leans down and mouths at the outline of Lovett's dick through the material of his boxer-briefs, and Lovett shudders underneath him, eyes half-closing. He's flushed pink all down his chest, teeth digging into his lower lip, and Jon wants to say _you're perfect, you're fucking gorgeous, Lovett,_ but he can't bring himself to string together a coherent sentence right now, and his mouth is occupied, anyway.

It's unbelievable that he gets to have this, that he gets to make a mess of Lovett's underwear while Emily's hand sinks into his hair. When Jon pulls away just enough to drag Lovett's underwear down his thighs, Lovett's erection smacks against Jon's chin, and Lovett makes another strained noise.

Emily laughs roughly. "He's good with his mouth, isn't he?" she says, fond, fingers smoothing back the hair at Jon's temple.

"You weren't kidding," Lovett says, almost awestruck, and Jon's half-hard just from listening to them, from the idea of them talking about this, talking about him. He rolls his hips against the mattress, just once, and Emily's fingers curl around Jon's ear, squeezing it gently.

"Not yet," she says, deceptively light. "You'll get your turn. Take care of Lovett, first." Jon pulls his knees up underneath him, folds down obediently, and Lovett's left hand shakes a little as it reaches down to card through Jon's hair. "I've made him wait for days before," she tells Lovett, and Jon watches her free hand edge past the hem of her own underwear. "He's highly motivated when he's desperate."

"Jesus, Emily," Lovett says.

"You'll see," Emily says. She tucks her head against Lovett's shoulder and gazes down at Jon, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Go on." Lovett hisses when Jon slides a hand around his erection. Jon can tell he's trying to hold still from the tense flex of his thighs, the tight grip in his hair. "You can be rough with him," Emily says. She helps Jon tug Lovett's underwear the rest of the way off, hooks Lovett's knees over his shoulders. "He won't mind. He likes it."

Lovett says, "Jon," low and soft, like a prayer, and again when Jon finally— _finally_ —sucks the tip of Lovett's dick into his mouth. He swipes his tongue across the slit, gathering precome and memorizing the salty, thick flavor, the perfect weight, the way Lovett's hips rise, helpless. The position Jon's hunched in isn't great for his back, but he doesn't care—he slides his lips further down, tongue flat against the shaft, chin already starting to get damp with saliva. Jon's out of practice, and it's not elegant, but blowjobs aren't meant to be, he's pretty sure. Lovett's making punched-out noises, squirming against Jon's arms, nudging deeper. He must be doing something right.

Jon slides all the way back up with an obscene slurping noise, sucking on the tip, before swallowing Lovett down again. His jaw is starting to feel sore in the best way, and there's a buzz building in his ears, the push-pull rhythm washing over him. He spreads his hand over Lovett's stomach to hold him down, choking a little on his dick, and rubs his nose in the tangle of hair around its base. He's going to be thinking about how heavy Lovett feels against his tongue for ages; he's going to hear how much raspier his voice is tomorrow morning and remember every detail about how it happened.

He lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment, fingers digging into Lovett's skin. Tries to steady himself before continuing, hollowing his cheeks, sucking harder. "Fuck," Lovett says, voice pulled taut. "Fuck, Jon, you're gonna make me—"

"Come," Emily says, and when Jon looks up again, she's reaching to tug at one of Lovett's curls. Lovett lifts half off the bed as he does, mouth hanging open with surprise. Jon chokes again, eyes watering, Lovett's thighs bracketed tight around his head. He manages to ease off in time for one last spurt of jizz to hit him in the face, dripping down toward the corner of his mouth. He flicks his tongue out, catching some of it with the tip. Lovett groans.

Jon swallows thickly, wiping his cheek, and sits back on his haunches. Lovett's blotchy pink, panting and sweaty. Jon's so hard that he feels like he's on fire, waiting for relief, but Emily hasn't come yet. Emily's—easing her underwear off and smiling at him, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"You did so well," she says, beckoning with her hands. "Come here."

Jon leans forward again; he already knows what she wants. He's a mess, but she wipes the hem of her shirt across his chin, guides him down. She's so wet already, dripping with it just from watching them, and Jon barely has to curl his tongue along the seam of her pussy before her legs flex around his head.

He keeps going, channeling all his pent-up arousal, sucking on her clit and licking up in broad strokes until the only thing coming out of her mouth is one long, continuous moan. She tastes sweetly tangy, like she always does, her body intimately familiar, opening up for him.

There's a hand in his hair, and it must be Lovett's, because Emily's are cupped around his neck, nails biting crescents against his skin. When he flicks his eyes up, Emily's head is tossed back, shivering as she arches against his mouth, but Lovett's staring down at him, rapt, like he could watch Jon do this forever.

Jon's face is even more a disaster by the time Emily weakly pushes his head away, and his back really is starting to complain. "Emily," he says, and part of him doesn't even recognize his own voice, gravelly beyond belief with desire, desperation, the ache in the back of his throat.

Emily props herself up on her elbows, head lolling against one shoulder. "Wanna do the honors, Lovett?" she says.

Jon crawls up the length of the bed and flops over on his back, jostling both of them, and Lovett huffs. "I got it," he says, and then, lower, "I got you." Jon's stomach clenches. He watches Lovett lick his palm before reaching down, and groans at the first pass of his hand, gripping with just enough pressure that Jon makes a strangled noise.

He tries to turn his face into the pillows, into Lovett's side, but Emily's hands are in his hair again, tugging him back. "No, let him see you," Emily says, nails scratching against his scalp. "You look good when you fall apart."

It's—embarrassing, but in a way that makes Jon flush from head to toe, the hot curl of pleasure in Jon's stomach coalescing a little more. Lovett goes so slow, scooting close and pressing his free arm across Jon's thighs, weighing him down so that he can't even buck up into the circle of his fingers.

"Tease," he rasps.

Lovett grins up at him, wide and toothy. "You've always known that about me," he points out, and Jon can't even object.

Jon's been wound so tight for so long that it's a relief when Lovett finally picks the pace up, hand making slick, wet sounds as he jerks Jon off. Emily leans over to press her lips to his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and he says, "Please," the word breaking apart in the middle, fingers twisting in the sheets.

He sighs when he comes, entire body quivering through it, eyes shut against the prickling behind his lids.

Lovett's shaking his head, lips twitching, when Jon comes back into himself. "How is it that even his o-face looks like that?"

Emily laughs, tipping over against the mattress. "Annoying, right?"

"Super unfair."

Jon drapes a hand over his eyes, groaning, but he can't stop a dumb smile from spreading across his face. Maybe it's a side effect from being too orgasm-stupid to care about how sticky his skin is, how his hair and his mouth are both totally wrecked, but he thinks he's just—happy, surrounded by his people, the taste of them lingering in his mouth. Warm, and satisfied, and happy.

 

 

Later, they drag the gross top sheet off the bed and toss it down onto the floor with their discarded clothing. Jon settles back in the middle, stretching underneath the blanket, and nudges Lovett's side. Part of Jon still wants to know what he and Emily discussed when he was washing up, but he can wait till Lovett's ready to talk about it. Instead, he asks, "You're good, right? That was good."

Lovett opens one eye, turns toward him. "Sex turns you into such a praise junkie," he says, amused, and then, when Jon pouts at him: "Yes, yes, it was good. God."

"You'll get used to it," Emily says, snuggled in on Jon's other side. She laughs when Jon pinches her.

 

 

They swap bodies again the Saturday before Memorial Day. It's one of those rare mornings when Lovett wakes up before he does, so the bed is empty by the time Jon rolls over, takes stock of his clothes, his limbs, his faint headache from drinking through last night's show at the Improv.

He can hear faint music playing on the Sonos outside, classical piano. That's enough to get him up and out of bed, padding down the hall and into the living room, where Emily and Lovett are—

Dancing. Full ballroom, something waltzy, from the look and sound of it. Of course. Emily had wanted to practice this morning, for the wedding. The coffee table's been pushed all the way up against the couch, and they're making full use of the floor, spinning around in a way that makes Jon dizzy, and he's not even doing anything. He shuffles to the island, guzzles half a glass of water from the Brita and then pours himself a cup of coffee and just watches. They're so focused on the steps that they haven't noticed him yet, and it's really nice, being able to just observe them like this, moving as one body, Lovett's hand splayed across Emily's lower back, Emily's head tilting with each swinging step, their faces inches apart as he dips her.

It feels kind of self-aggrandizing to admire how good they look when anyone else would look at them and see Emily and Jon, soon-to-be married, but—they could be doing this in the right bodies and Jon would still think the same thing. He _has_ thought the same thing in different contexts, too many times to count: when they're out walking the dogs together, when Emily steals bites of Lovett's takeout on Sunday nights, when Jon catches them curled up on the couch, engrossed in the latest episode of The Bachelor. In hindsight, it seems obvious that Lovett was meant to be here with them, that Lovett would fit into the circle of their relationship so seamlessly. He's Lovett. He was already there.

Emily finally glances over Lovett's shoulder and sees him, smiles as he raises his mug in salute. "You're much better at this than Jon is," she says, a little out of breath, and grins wider when Jon rolls his eyes and sends her a rude gesture. "That man has two left feet."

Lovett chuckles. "Dancing is math, you know. Geometry. Figures he'd be bad at it."

"Maybe we _should_ swap during the wedding, then," Jon says blithely, and Lovett can't quite disguise the way he jumps. Jon drains the rest of his coffee and skirts around them, sits down at the piano bench. "At least for the first dance after the one with your dad."

"If only it worked that way," Emily sighs, and then they're turning in place, Lovett's steps stuttering a little. When Jon sees Lovett's face, his expression's gone kind of wooden.

"Guys," he says. "Seriously."

"We're being serious," Jon says. "Have you picked up your suit yet? That's my only real priority here. You know you're not allowed to show up in a graphic tee, right?"

"Jon—"

Emily steps away as the song ends, hands on her hips. "Listen, Lovett," she says, raising her eyebrows. "Last night I had another nightmare that the goddamn pee tape dropped on the day of our wedding, and everyone spent the whole ceremony checking their phones instead of paying attention." Jon smothers a laugh into his hand, and Emily sends him a quelling look. "Frankly, on a scale from perfect to nuclear, I'm much more worried about that scenario than the idea of you and Jon switching bodies for a couple hours during the festivities."

"Oh," Lovett says, voice small. He glances at Jon, and then back at Emily. "Really?"

"Really," Emily says, lifting her hands again. "Now dance with me." She slants her head at Jon, expectant. "Jon?"

Jon turns in his seat, flipping the piano's fallboard open. Lovett's fingers aren't as long as his; Jon's brain, though, still knows Chopin. Playing in a different body is a strange exercise, but he gets to peek over his shoulder and watch them fall over each other when Emily tries to dip Lovett, and that's more than worth it.

 

 

Sunday morning, Jon wakes up curled on his side, dick hard and heavy against his thigh. He's still in Lovett's body, and the dream, this time, wasn't so much a continuous sequence as it was a bunch of disconnected snatches of sensory input: the smell of Emily's shampoo, the press of Lovett's chest against Jon's back, the soreness that comes with being on his knees for hours. The overall effect, though, is the same. His heartbeat kicks in his throat, and Jon's hands inch down to play with the drawstring of his sweatpants.

He's idly thinking about sneaking into the bathroom to deal with the issue when Lovett shifts against him, turning onto his back, eyes opening just a sliver. His hip bumps up against Jon's crotch, and Jon lets out a soft noise before he can stop himself.

Lovett's eyes widen, comprehension dawning. "Hey," he says quietly. His mouth curls up. "Need a hand?"

Jon half-laughs, half-sighs. He sits halfway up, the comforter sliding off from around his shoulders. "I mean," he says, resting against the headboard "I can manage on my own, if you want to go back to sleep."

Lovett blinks at him, and then asks, carefully determined, "Is that what you want?"

 _No_ , Jon thinks. He bites his lip, shakes his head. For a moment, the only sound in the room is Emily's breathing, deep and even, on the far side of the bed, and then Lovett scooches up to sit next to him.

"Emily told me," he says slowly, and pauses, like he's searching for the right words. "She said that there are a lot of things you want."

"Understatement of the year," Jon murmurs, smiling ruefully, and Lovett's mouth rises, too.

"This thing, it's just new for all of us," he says, faster now that he's on a roll, warming up to the subject. "Just because we switch bodies sometimes doesn't mean we know everything, right? It's not like we can read each other's minds." Lovett fiddles with the edge of the comforter, face turning kind of pink. "She said she wanted to watch me fuck you, and I'm not even sure what that's gonna do for her, but, you know."

Jon flushes, too, dick twitching in his sweatpants. "I mean, I can tell you what the idea is doing for me."

Lovett's eyes crinkle. "Noted," he says, wry. "I don't know if I'll want everything you do, or she does, and neither does she. And we both might want other things, too, things we don't even know about right now, but we could—we don't have to figure it out all at once. We can play it by ear."

"By ear," Jon repeats.

Lovett looks straight at him, the clearest eyed Jon's ever seen him this early in the morning. "We just have to talk to each other, when it counts. We're pretty good at that, I think."

"We are," Jon says. He's used to playing it by ear with Lovett, last minute changes scribbled in the margins, bouncing new jokes off each other in a messy office two nights before the correspondents dinner. They're doing the same thing now, on the other side of the country, trying to steer this big new ship with Tommy into uncharted territory. As far as strategies go, it's worked out pretty well for them so far.

Lovett's smiling at him again. "So now you know all the juicy shit we've been saying about you behind your back."

Jon huffs. "She's pretty smart, that one. You, though, I'm not so sure—"

Lovett sticks his tongue out at him, a singularly ridiculous expression on Jon's face. "Just for that, you can deal with your boner on your own."

"Nooo," Jon groans, grabbing his chest. Being in Lovett's body makes it easier to be dramatic, somehow. "Don't leave me like this." Lovett laughs, the sound high and pleased. He swings a leg over, jostling the comforter as he climbs into Jon's lap, and leans down to kiss Jon anyway.

Emily's voice floats over a moment later, scratchy with sleep: "You know, this is an image I could get used to waking up to every day."

When Jon glances at her, Emily's stretching, hair mussed, half her face eclipsed by a pillow. "That can be arranged, Czarina Emily," Lovett says, laughter still thick in his voice, and presses their mouths together again.


End file.
